Chapter VIII #2
What Elizabeth did not expect was to hear Clara Whitcombe’s name again only days after her aunt first mentioned it.
The occasion was an evening at the home of one of Miss Bingley’s friends, Mrs. Beatrice Langley.
Mrs. Langley was a woman the Bennet sisters did not know well, and was of interest only because she provided the venue for the evening’s entertainment.
Elizabeth had no notion of how the subject had arisen, knew nothing of the context—that did not prevent her from hearing what followed.
That evening, she had begun in a group with several other ladies before she had migrated without any intention to a group containing Mr. Darcy.
Soon, the others had drifted away, leaving Elizabeth alone with the gentleman.
As had become common of late, they avoided speaking of Mr. Bingley and Jane, and instead concentrated on other subjects of mutual interest to both.
It had been Elizabeth’s firm opinion in Hertfordshire that Mr. Darcy was unwilling to speak, aloof to the point of incivility, but time in London had proven that supposition incorrect.
Mr. Darcy was not a fount of words; he would never be a man who performed for anyone—he was not that sort of man.
When matters of substance arose, however, Mr. Darcy was in no way deficient.
Their opinions did not always align, and the gentleman defended his position with vigor, but he acknowledged her opinion with gravity, and complimented her when her arguments were sound.
“Mr. Darcy,” said Miss Bingley, on one occasion after they had been speaking together for some time. “It appears you find Miss Eliza’s company strangely compelling tonight; why, I do not think you have spoken two words complete to anyone else in the room.”
These interruptions were frequent—Miss Bingley focused her attention on Jane and Mr. Bingley, but their frequent proximity did not escape her notice.
“Not at all, Miss Bingley,” said Mr. Darcy in that inflectionless tone he often used with her. “If you recall, I spoke with your brother, and several others present earlier in the evening.”
“We were having an interesting discussion about Marlowe, Miss Bingley,” said Elizabeth. “Mr. Darcy finds value in his work, whereas I am ambivalent.” Elizabeth turned a sly grin on Mr. Darcy and added: “Then again, my opinion may be biased, as my father does not appreciate Marlowe at all.”
“At least you have confessed it,” said Mr. Darcy, a strange twinkle in his eye.
The subject was calculated to provoke Miss Bingley to retreat—although she was not deficient, Elizabeth did not think she counted reading as one of her accomplishments. That was curious, of course, as Mr. Darcy had specified how he deemed it necessary for any woman claiming the title.
At that moment, Mr. Darcy gave her a look that, while it gave nothing away, was as clear to Elizabeth as if he had spoken aloud. It took all her willpower to avoid smiling in response.
“Come, Miss Eliza,” said Miss Bingley, taking her arm. “I was just speaking with Miss Teasdale—I suspect you would enjoy the subject.”
With a significant glance at Mr. Darcy, Elizabeth allowed Miss Bingley to lead her away.
It did little to promote Miss Bingley’s designs, however, for Miss Teasdale was not a scintillating conversationalist. The need to ensure Jane and Mr. Bingley’s proximity soon distracted her, and not long after, Elizabeth was once again in conversation with Mr. Darcy.
“Tell me, Mr. Darcy,” said Elizabeth, “do you find my company compelling?”
Mr. Darcy raised his cup to his lips and surveyed the room. “More so than anyone else.”
Elizabeth arched an eyebrow at him. “Even more than Mr. Bingley?”
With a low chuckle, Mr. Darcy said: “My friendship with Bingley is not because of his ability to amaze the room with his witty repartee, Miss Elizabeth. Bingley’s lightness of spirit draws me to him—he is excellent company.”
“That is curious, sir,” said Elizabeth. “I had not thought you interested in me at all.”
“Surely recent weeks have given the lie to that supposition.”
Elizabeth regarded him critically. “Yes, I suppose you are correct. Then do you suppose Miss Bingley is achieving her aim by coming between us as often as she does?”
It was several moments before the gentleman responded. “In her mind, I suppose she is achieving her objective.”
“Oh?” asked Elizabeth. “That is quite mysterious, Mr. Darcy—I assume you will clarify.”
“Of course,” said he. “Miss Bingley wishes for my attention, desires to fill the position most recently occupied by my mother. She considers you a threat, so she interferes with our conversations.”
The notion that she represented any threat to Miss Bingley’s designs seemed ridiculous, but something in Mr. Darcy prevented her from laughing. The gentleman did not appear amused or contemptuous; rather, he watched her as if wondering what she would make of it.
“If you will excuse me, Mr. Darcy,” said Elizabeth, feeling her way forward, “I have never thought you favored Miss Bingley in that way.”
“No, I do not,” replied Mr. Darcy. “The problem is Miss Bingley’s opinion. To her, I have simply not come to the point yet.”
“I am not surprised. Miss Bingley strikes me as a woman of supreme confidence. Whether that confidence has merit is another question entirely.”
“You see the heart of the matter, Miss Elizabeth.”
“Not entirely, Mr. Darcy,” said Elizabeth, now meeting and holding the gentleman’s eyes.
“It is quite curious to me that Miss Bingley considers me a danger to her designs. You have spoken of your interest in me, but I have seen nothing to suggest that interest is anything out of the common way, and our argumentative exchanges in Hertfordshire should tell her otherwise.”
Mr. Darcy regarded her, saying nothing, and Elizabeth felt discomfort sweeping over her. It was not the way he was looking at her, or not that only—something of the emotion behind that gaze spoke to her, saying things she was not ready to hear.
“Again, Miss Elizabeth,” said he at length, “I would direct you to our recent exchanges in London.”
“Then does Miss Bingley suspect you are on the verge of a proposal?” jested Elizabeth. “If so, her acuity is much less than I supposed.”
There had been a testing quality to Elizabeth’s remark, wondering what Mr. Darcy would do with it.
“No, that is yet premature.”
Astonishment welled up within her as Elizabeth considered the implications of that statement. Before she could respond, however, Miss Bingley’s voice rose, and Elizabeth understood at once what she was saying, though she knew nothing of what provoked it.
“Oh, Miss Whitcombe means nothing to us,” said she, her tone determined, forceful. “Any connection she tries to assert is unfounded.”
“That is not entirely true, Caroline,” said Mr. Bingley, contradicting his sister in company for the first time in Elizabeth’s memory. “After all, we have known the Whitcombes from our childhood. As I recall, you were once thick as thieves with her.”
“That was many years ago, Charles,” said Miss Bingley, and though she gave every appearance of composure, she spoke as if she were forcing it out from between clenched teeth. “You cannot call them anything other than distant acquaintances now.”
Mr. Bingley shrugged, disinclined to pursue the subject.
Miss Bingley, believing she had made her point, redirected the conversation to other matters, though Elizabeth did not follow it.
From across the room, Elizabeth caught Jane’s eye, and her sister nodded from her position beside Mr. Bingley.
Elizabeth was not near enough to see or hear much, but Mr. Bingley remained silent thereafter.
“That is most curious,” said Mr. Darcy, pulling Elizabeth’s attention back to him.
“What is curious, Mr. Darcy?” asked Elizabeth wondering if he would betray his knowledge.
“Bingley’s behavior,” replied the gentleman, still watching his friend. “Though Bingley will often correct his sister in private, he rarely does so where anyone can overhear.”
“Tell me, Mr. Darcy,” said Elizabeth. “Do you think your friend is being led, or is he choosing his path for himself?”
Mr. Darcy considered the question for several moments.
“Bingley is not a man who allows others to force him toward something he does not want.” The gentleman shrugged.
“I know he gives the appearance of a complying temper, but that does not mean he accepts influence. Others may guide, delay, or even persuade him for a time—but he always does what he wishes.”
For a moment, Elizabeth considered sharing what she knew and inviting the gentleman to do likewise, but something informed her that now was not the time. Thus, she remained silent, and Mr. Darcy did not reference the subject again.
Yet she reflected on what Mr. Darcy had said for some time, recalling her opinion from Hertfordshire, contrasted with what was becoming clear now.
Whatever Mr. Darcy’s influence over his friend, he was not a man who saw Mr. Bingley as a puppet.
If anything, Mr. Darcy appeared unwilling to say anything that his friend might construe as interference.
They stayed that way for the rest of the evening, and in time their previous animated conversation returned. But they said nothing of Miss Whitcombe or Mr. Darcy’s comments about Elizabeth again.